


Harder. Faster. Stronger. Better. (The Morning After Remix)

by kinetikatrue



Category: Women's Hockey RPF
Genre: Dreams, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, One Night Stands, Shaving, The Mighty Ducks References, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 16:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinetikatrue/pseuds/kinetikatrue
Summary: Keep the greasy food and coffee coming! Hilary's gotta get up and be 20% better than all the guys.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theladyscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/gifts).
  * Inspired by [fine, fresh, fierce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8088319) by [theladyscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe). 



**Mighty Ducks/Chicago Falcons (Saturday, October 5, 1996)**

"Hilary!" Connie yells, letting me know she's open. But she's way down the ice from me, so far away I can barely hear her - and she better tag up if she wants me to pass her the puck. Does she really think I can do it? It's kinda a long shot; I'm only seven. 

That's definitely under 14, but it's also under 13…

I'm only half Connie's size, okay, maybe a little more. Which makes me the tallest kid on my team, but that's up against other seven and eight year olds. We're /Mites/ for a reason. And my Team USA jersey is way oversized.

Do the refs really not know they have a little kid on the ice? Wearing a jersey and not much else but a slightly loose helmet and skates (plus my hockey socks, which are slumped around my ankles like giant striped legwarmers)? I don't know where the rest of my gear is, but since the refs don't seem to have noticed, I figure I'd better hurry up and finish my shift before they /do/.

At least I still have my gloves - and they fit okay?

"Hilary!" Connie yells again - and she sounds closer this time, and also weirdly like my mom. But whatever, at least she's back on neutral ice, so she won't be offsides if my pass actually makes it to her. Which it probably will, since I can pass all the way from one side of the rink to the other, and that's kinda like from blue line to blue line. The kids from Iceland are gonna notice soon, though, if they haven't already, so I brace myself, look back over my shoulder to check on Julie…

..and get checked, blind-side, which is /totally/ against the rules and also gonna send me crashing into the boards wrong if I don't do something.

So I stretch to twist away from the boards as I fall, and squeeze my eyes shut so I don't have to see the ice coming up at me, and try and take the dude who checked me down with me. And we crash into something soft. Or I do, and he crashes into me. 

/Did I actually manage to land worse?/ 

I try wiggling my toes, and they work okay, but I can't feel my skates, and also the guy's pinning my legs. And I can hear stuff, but it doesn't sound like crowd noise, or people worrying if I'm okay. So I crack one eye carefully open and get an eyeful of...my own room.

Or as much of it as I can see around Jamie, the oldest of my three younger brothers, who's smiling obnoxiously because he got to jump onto my bed with me in it. "You're gonna be late for practice if you don't get up!" he announces, sounding smug as he gets right in my face.  
Mom's standing in the doorway, holding Will, the youngest, on her hip. And Remy's sitting at the foot of my bed, staring at me and Jaime. A normal Saturday morning, but any other time I'd be up by now, sneakily avoiding all of it.

But it's my reality - no Connie, or Julie, to be found.

My mom says, "C'mon, boys," and, "you'd better hurry up if you want any of the french toast your dad's making."

And then Jaime makes a face at me and slides off my legs, and I'm left sitting there, in bed, wearing the oversized Team USA sweatshirt my gramma got me for my birthday this summer (because, she'd said, someday I'd have my own, for real, but until then…). At least my mom knows I can get the rest of the way up on my own. I can even make myself Cheerios and milk for breakfast.

And I don't usually oversleep!

But, okay, you gotta understand: yesterday, /D3: The Mighty Ducks/ opened in Chicago and one of the local theaters did a special deal where if you showed them your USA Hockey card, you could watch the first two Mighty Ducks movies for free before seeing the new one. And I begged my parents to let me go - even though the last movie ended after my bedtime - because Connie Moreau! On the big screen!

Who doesn't want to be her when they grow up?

(My dad asked 'you won't whine about getting up for practice in the morning?' and I said 'no way!' and my mom said 'it can be a learning experience', like that was a good thing.)

So they let me go, along with a bunch of the other kids from my travel team. And it was awesome, sitting in a theater full of other hockey kids, cheering for the Ducks to win, and win again, and again. By the end, I was so pumped up I didn't care even a little bit about how late it was when I got home.

Right now, I gotta get going, because I do want to get to practice on time. So I strip off my sweatshirt, pull on one of my Falcons t-shirts and a pair of bike shorts, shove my legs into a pair of wind pants and burrow back into my sweatshirt, and go skidding out the door and down the stairs, carrying a pair of socks. I may be able to make Cheerios all by myself, but french toast is way better, any day of the week.

And particularly the morning after I saw D3: The Mighty Ducks on opening day!

I've got Connie Moreau to catch up to, after all. I mean, I'm already better than most of the boys my age - if they won't make women's hockey an Olympic sport, well, I'm just gonna have to be better than ALL the boys. And that means I don't get to yawn at practice today.

 

**Chicago Mission (Sunday, October 8, 2000)**

When the beeping starts, I throw an arm out on reflex, intending to hit snooze - once - and putting the smack-down on a pillow, instead. A motel pillow, not one of the nice ones on my bed at home. Also, the beeping doesn't stop.

Right.

I'm not at home, so that's Emily's travel alarm, beeping away on the table on the other side of the room. Because the parents rotate who comes along to chaperone, and mine aren't on the schedule this time - they can't be, with four kids playing hockey - so I'm sharing a room with our back-up goalie. In Toronto. Because we're here for a tournament.

And that's about when my brain gets it together enough to think /shit! We have a game against the Coyotes this morning! At 9:30!/

At least I can do the start the day thing on autopilot: stumble out of bed, eyes barely cracked, and fumble my way to the bathroom to piss. Running my toothbrush over my teeth and gargling with mouthwash helps a bit more. But I only really come awake when I reach for my hairbrush, turn back to stare at the mirror while I brush my hair into its usual ponytail...and freeze when I get a good look at my reflection. Because there's a lot less hair there to brush, like…

/...I actually did take the dare to let Jordy give me a Mohawk./

I don't scream - though this would be a prime opportunity to get my Kevin on - but that's mostly because I'm too busy chanting /fuck, fuck, fuck/ under my breath. I mean, I have GREAT parents, but I haven't ever even asked to dye my hair before. And there's school tomorrow - and I'm pretty sure Mohawks aren't part of the dress code. And neither are hats. And we're not getting back to Chicago until late tonight.

At least nobody will care what's under my helmet when we're on the ice?

I refuse to freak out for real. Because that's about all I can do about the situation for now - and all the time I have to worry about it. Right now, I have to keep moving. Take a few stabs at what remains of my hair to confirm there's nothing I can do with it - it's not even a /good/ Mohawk, but what'd I expect out of a middle school dude? - and then head back out into the room to throw on sweats and a hat. And then prod Emily out of bed.

Team breakfast waits for nobody - and there's a reason Emily's alarm clock is that annoying.

No bet as to when the chirping will start once the guys remember what's under my hat. We're eleven, just on the edge of caring about what their being boys and me being a girl /means/. But for now, all that matters is that I can keep up with them on the ice, that coaches care about who they match up against me and my partner. That I'm good enough for AAA.

And, okay, maybe sometimes I dream about being good enough that the NHL drafts me, that the 'Hawks draft me, and I make everyone in Chicago care about hockey again, but I'm not dumb enough to admit that to anyone, even though the guys all want the exact same thing. But not enough to want to look like their mascot.

Because they chirp me just like any of the other guys, and we all know all of each other's sore spots after a year of playing together. And, okay, there's maybe only one or two guys who really know how to deliver a sick burn/. But nobody plays nice - and I can already imagine what's gonna be waiting for me.

Emily just serves as a bad omen: when I prod her awake enough to get her eyes open, and she gets a good look at me, she pretty much breaks down laughing.

I glare at her and say, "I thought you were on my side."

And she shakes her head and says, "Oh, no - when it comes to terrible hair choices, it's every man for himself."

So, yep, I know how my day is going to go, now.

 

**Wisconsin Badgers (Saturday, October 18, 2008)**

The stupid sun wakes me up. Because of course it does. Why would we have remembered to close the blinds before we fell asleep last night? I may not actually remember that part, but knowing us, none of us were making great decisions by the time we went to bed - aside from the going to bed thing. That was a good one.

Even if it did involve sleeping in a crappy dorm bed, in a triple, under the usual shitty, thin blanket colleges give out.

At least we get to be home for Halloween. Any partying that happens - and who am I kidding? Of course there's gonna be partying - I'll get to sleep off in my own not quite as shitty dorm bed. And drown in my own mediocre dining hall food.

A few more minutes of laying there, eyes shut tight, confirms it: no matter how much I might want to, I'm not going back to sleep any time soon. 

The mattress and the blanket are conspiring against me - and my bladder is having Opinions. So getting up it is. Though I refuse to be that sad person sitting around doing her homework while she waits for everyone else to wake up. I mean, I've got an iPod and I know how to use it, and starting the day with some jams is never a bad way to go.

First, though, there's a trip to the bathroom on my to-do list - so I slide out of bed, pad across the chilly linoleum floor, and close the door silently behind me, the better to let sleeping roommates lie.

Sitting on the toilet, with my boxers around my ankles, still only half-awake, is an a-okay start to the morning. I've got the place to myself - and I don't really have to think about anything, just lean my head against the cool metal of the stall and enjoy the feeling of taking that first morning piss (after a night of solid drinking capped off by plenty of precautionary water). It's all muscle memory, right up until I go to wipe...and discover there's been a drastic change in the landscape.

A visual check confirms it: there's not a hair in sight, not even a hint of stubble, and I keep things trimmed, sure, but that's a long way from clear-cut.

Suddenly, the morning's feeling a little less lazy. Because I have hazy memories of the team having a post-win shaving party in the visitors showers last night - they happen from time to time - but there's nothing there telling me why I did away with all my pubic hair. Or whether I was the only one.

So the lazy start to the day comes to an end: I'll be off on a fact-finding mission as soon as I wash my hands and splash water on my face.

Meghan and Jas are still asleep - Meghan's even snoring a little, wheezy, snuffly little sounds - and neither of them notice when I slide back into the room. That's about to change, though, as soon as I get my iPod plugged into my portable speakers - and click play on my 'Wake Up' playlist. I'm not about to hang out in limbo over this any longer than I have to.

If I have to be up and dealing with this, so do they.

It isn't an instantaneous change, but when I've got them both at least kind of awake - Meghan propped up on one elbow and Jas cuddling her pillow - I ask, just straight up say, "So, we had a shaving party last night, right? Am I the only one who shaved her cunt?"

Jas shakes her head, snickering.

"But we weren't even drunk, yet!"

"We were pretty high from winning…"

"But somebody thought we should've won /more/."

"Four goals is only respectable," I say, "One goal per period, plus one for insurance."

"We KNOW," Kacey says. "You told everybody that last night. Repeatedly."

So I like winning - and scoring lots of goals - what hockey player doesn't? It's pretty much the point of the game. And there's nothing quite like crushing the spirit of the opposing goalie by completely tanking their save percentage. So I understand my reasoning up to that point, but that still leaves one last thing I want to know. "Why?"

"Because they're BEAVERS," Meghan says, giggling and waving her free hand about in a way that she probably intends to encompass Bemidji State. "Someone thought we should get rid of them. Y'know, symbolically."

The way she says someone, I have a sneaking suspicion she means /me/. Which is not out of character, unfortunately. So I shrug and say, "Well, we better kick even more ass tonight, then." If we don't, well, it won't even be a cool story, just something dumb we did that left us itching in our jocks for far too long.

 

**Boston Pride (Sunday, October 23, 2016)**

I'm maybe not as young as I used to be. It's a possibility. I definitely didn't used to get hangovers, anyway.

Fortunately, Meghan and Kacey are excellent friends with excellent taste in places to eat brunch. So there's a cup of coffee the size of my head sitting in front of me - and an equally large plate of delicious greasy protein and carbs on its way. And nobody's expecting anything in the way of conversation until at least the second cup. After all, we all did our share of drinking last night.

I mean, we won; we were at home; we didn't have a game the next day - of course we went out!

Somehow going out turned into running into pretty much all of the Habs - fresh off a win against the Big Bad Bs - at one of our usual bars. The only guy I knew from Team USA things was Patches, from Sochi. Otherwise, it was all names I knew - or didn't know - from following hockey news.

But a bunch of us who'd played for Team USA at various levels got to talking, and I ended up off to the side with one of the younger guys, Galchenyuk, who wasn't very talkative himself, but seemed plenty willing to listen to me brag about my game. And, well, one thing led to another.

I'm expecting the interrogation, but we have shared priorities, so it doesn't come until we've put serious dents into our piles of carbs and meat.

"We weren't sure you wouldn't just bail on us this morning, all 'sry, too busy having morning sex to drink bloody marys'," Kacey says.

"He had curfew," I shrug and add, "and I'm not much for sharing my bed." What can I say? I'm picky. I may not be playing the kind of schedule I did in high school and college, but, well, I'm still a hockey player. And we care about our sleep.

"Get it, Knighter," Kacey says, appreciatively.

"Oh, I got it, alright. He may not be much of a talker, but the things he can do with his tongue…," I trail off, letting my smile speak for itself.

"Niiiice," Meghan says. She and Kacey may be off the dude market at the moment, but we all know exactly how rare a find a young guy, who's into oral AND actually good at it is...

And that deserves a toast, even if all we're scoring off the dudes is occasional sex. Someday they're gonna have to treat us seriously.

Right now, though, the only thing we need to take seriously is brunch.

And, okay, usually, one of my favorite things about going to this particular place for brunch is that no matter what else you order, you also get breadsticks. I'm ALWAYS in favor of breadsticks. And especially when they come in a bottomless basket that can, by turns, be filled with garlic-y ones, or cheese-y ones or cinnamon sugar-y ones. Or whatever the special flavor of the day is,

But today, well, Kacey happens. She says, "But was his dick any good? Was it more a 'this'," while fingering the thick straw in her bloody mary. "Or a 'this'," bringing a breadstick up to her lips and biting off the tip. "Orrrr maybe more like a 'this'," concluding by bringing the hand fingering her straw over to rest on Meghan's arm, and sliding it slowly, suggestively down.

I say dryly, "Well, it certainly didn't have a knob that big on the end, while Meghan fights a losing battle against cracking the fuck up.

Maybe not that seriously. There's plenty of other stuff, like getting paid what we're worth, to save that for.


End file.
